


Stay High, Lie Low

by miss_begonia



Series: Vday Verse [3]
Category: Glee, Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Darren says: <i>My brother’s playing a gig in SF and I’m going to go and I think you should go too.</i></p>
<p>What he doesn’t say: <i>I’m homesick and I don’t want to miss you when I’m away.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay High, Lie Low

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "San Francisco" by the Weepies.

What Darren says:  _My brother’s playing a gig in SF and I’m going to go and I think you should go too._  
  
What he doesn’t say:  _I’m homesick and I don’t want to miss you when I’m away._  
  
*  
  
They listen to showtunes for half the drive up, and Darren’s road trip mix for the other half. Chris makes fun of Darren for having a road trip mix, but Darren waves him off.  
  
“Whatever, dude, I used to do a lot of driving back and forth,” he says.  
  
Less lately, ever since  _Glee_  and the ensuing chaos. Less still since he and Chris became…whatever they are. He hasn’t seen his brother in two months. That feels like a long time.  
  
Chris sings along to all the showtunes, knows all the words, never hits a wrong note. Darren still gets that punch-in-the-gut feeling he had the first day he heard Chris sing on set.  _He really sounds like that._  Darren can carry a tune all right, but Chris is out of this world, originating from some crazy fairy planet where all the boys are beautiful and have delicate wrists and smile with their eyes.  
  
Darren watches Chris tense up when they pass the exit for the 99 to Bakersfield/Fresno, but then some song from Wicked comes on and he uncoils and melts into the seat. Darren wants to reach across the gearshift and hold Chris’s hand, but he thinks Chris might take that the wrong way. He doesn’t even know what he would be protecting him from - memories of bullies past?  
  
He grips the wheel more tightly instead.  
  
They stop at In & Out and Chris orders a grilled cheese with a slice of tomato and lettuce on the side, and chews each bite delicately. It takes him like forty-five minutes to eat that sandwich, and Darren is so hard by the end of it he thinks he could cry.  
  
*  
  
“Are you going to tell me where we’re staying?” Chris asks.  
  
“No,” Darren says, flicking on his signal and turning from Octavia onto Fell St.  
  
“I just want you to know,” Chris says, “that if you kidnap me, someone will probably send out a search party. Eventually.”  
  
“What, like an amber alert?” Darren asks.  
  
“For the 415th time,  _Darren_ , I AM NOT A CHILD,” Chris says.  
  
It may be 415 times at this point, but it’s still hilarious how Chris’s lip twists and his brow furrows. Darren hopes they never reach a statute of limitations on this joke.  
  
“I’m sorry, I get confused,” Darren says. “You look like you’re—“  
  
“What does that say about you exactly?” Chris says, arching an eyebrow.  
  
“I like feeling like a cradle-robber?” Darren says. “I’m okay with it.”  
  
Chris pouts all the way to the hotel.   
  
*  
  
“This is beautiful,” Chris says, dropping his bag onto the hardwood floor and going to peer out the wide bay window. Darren picked the hotel because it has personality and history, two things he knows Chris appreciates. The furniture is all antique and the architecture is classic San Francisco Victorian: dark wood, built-ins, crown molding.  
  
“I love this place,” Darren says. “One of my friends rented a suite here on prom night.”  
  
“Oh my God, did you lose your virginity here?” Chris says, eyes widening.  
  
Darren laughs. “No. No, I did not.”  
  
“You’re not even going to tell me the story, are you?”  
  
“No, no I am not.”  
  
Chris places one hand on his hip. “So…we could have stayed with your parents, right? I mean – you didn’t have to go to all this trouble—“  
  
“If we stayed with my parents it would be much harder to do this,” Darren says, and grasps Chris by the hips and pulls him forward. Chris hitches in a breath as Darren leans down and licks his way up Chris’s neck, sucking gently on his pulse point.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Chris says, and goes boneless in Darren’s arms.  
  
Darren presses one hand to the small of Chris’s back and steers them into the master bedroom, then promptly overbalances and sends them both toppling onto the bed.  
  
“Mmm, way to go, Don Juan,” Chris says.  
  
“Whatever,” Darren says, and pushes his hands into Chris’s hair and kisses him so hard Chris’s hips arch off the bed. Chris is wearing his tightest jeans and a button-down blue and green plaid shirt and Darren wants every stitch of clothing off him, like, yesterday.  
  
“We should have…dinner,” Chris murmurs, his hands finding Darren’s ass and yanking him up so their bodies are flush.  
  
Darren doesn’t know what Chris is talking about, but it’s total nonsense.  
  
“Are you drunk?” Darren asks.  
  
He bites Chris’s lower lip, and Chris’s eyelids flutter closed. His chest rises and falls with difficult breaths, and he clutches at Darren’s hip, fingernails digging into the skin where his shirt’s ridden up.  
  
“Not drunk,” Chris whispers. “All the blood…not in my brain.”  
  
Darren smirks and leans down, flicking open the bottom buttons of Chris’s shirt and pressing a kiss to his stomach. Chris shivers and meets Darren’s kiss with parted lips, sighing softly.  
  
God, Chris is hot. He’s hot because he doesn’t know he is, and because everything is new to him, every time, no matter how many times they do it.  
  
Darren is about to slide his hand under the waistband of Chris’s jeans when something buzzes in Darren’s pocket.  
  
Chris’s eyes fly open. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”  
  
“I – but – my brother—” Darren says.  
  
“Don’t answer it, don’t—”  
  
Darren sits up and accidentally hits some button on his phone that not only answers the call but puts it on speaker.  
  
“Dude – Darren – are you here yet?”  
  
Chuck’s voice is lazy and infuriating. Darren yanks his phone out of his pocket and says, “WHAT?”  
  
There’s a short silence before Chuck says, “We’re having a bonfire on the beach. You should come. It’s so beautiful tonight, man, it’s like – there are stars, and—”  
  
Darren smothers a laugh and manages, “We’ll be there later.”  
  
“Don’t wait too long, the stars might go out…”  
  
The phone goes dead, and Darren tosses it aside, eager to get back to the task at hand, but Chris is already propping himself up on his elbows and nudging Darren away with his knee.  
  
“Your brother is a boner killer,” Chris announces. “Let’s go to the beach.”  
  
*  
  
The flames are already leaping high when Darren parks the car and coaxes Chris out into the chilly night air. It is gorgeous and clear, the sky a deep, deep navy blue black, the ocean an endless expanse into darkness, rolling and stretching, stretching.  
  
“It is  _so cold_ ,” Chris hisses, and Darren laughs, wraps his arm around Chris’s shoulders and leads him, shivering, down to the beach.  
  
“That’s why the fire, genius,” Darren says.  
  
“Is this even legal?” Chris says. “This is California. Fire has not been good to the Golden State.”  
  
“It’s the beach, it’s near water,” Darren says. “I think it’ll be okay.”  
  
Chuck and a bunch of his buddies are collapsed around a mound of burning sticks and paper and God knows what. Chuck’s laid flat out on his back, eyes closed. He and his brother look alike, and yet not – Chuck’s more like their mother, high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Darren’s got more of the Irish, more of the hard, square angles.  
  
Darren kicks him in the shoulder.  
  
“Fuck, dude!” Chuck yelps, but when his eyes focus he goes, “Brother!”  
  
“Pagbati, tulala,” Darren says, and Chuck reaches out and grasps his ankle and pulls until he goes sprawling.  
  
“Dickface,” Chuck says, affectionately, and hugs him hard, rolling them over and covering him in sand.  
  
“Chris,” Darren says as he struggles to extricate himself, “this is my brother, in case you were wondering.”  
  
“I got that,” Chris says, amused, and holds out his hand. “I’m Chris.”  
  
Chuck reaches straight up so Chris can shake. “Right on, dude,” he says.  
  
“This is nice,” Chris observes. He is decidedly more amiable now that he’s near the fire.  
  
“Sure is,” Chuck says. “So, is it really awesome being boyfriends with my brother? I bet Darren’s really gentle.”  
  
Chris blanches. Darren thinks,  _oh, no_. Because Chris doesn’t know - he doesn’t know what Chuck doesn’t know—  
  
“Don’t be an a-hole, Charles,” Darren says slowly, getting to his feet, “just because you envy what Kurt and Blaine have together.”  
  
Chris colors, looking away. His jaw is set.  
  
 _How have I already fucked this up?_  Darren wonders.  
  
“I do envy it, man,” Chuck continues, unfazed. “I mean, I have my music and my girlfriend, but we don’t sing songs together and shit. That’s awesome.”  
  
“Chris,” Darren murmurs, trying to get his attention, but Chris won’t meet his eyes.  
  
“Is there a limit on the number of stars our brains can process?” Kevin, Chuck’s bandmate, wonders aloud.  
  
“That is deep, dude,” Chuck states.  
  
“I’m going to take a walk,” Chris says softly.  
  
*  
  
Darren finds Chris an hour later, huddled at the top of a dune. He pulls his coat more tightly around himself.  
  
“Here,” Darren says, and takes his coat off and wraps it around Chris’s shoulders. Chris makes to shrug it off, but Darren says, “Just take it. It’s okay.”  
  
Chris is silent. He pushes a strand of hair out of his eyes and tilts up his chin. Darren can’t see him very well in the moonlight, but he thinks Chris’s cheeks might be wet.  
  
“Hey,” Darren says. “Hey, don’t—”  
  
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” Chris says, and wow, Darren is pretty sure he’s never heard Chris curse like that.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Darren says.  
  
“What are you sorry for?” Chris says. “You didn’t have to tell your brother about us. You’re not required—”  
  
“There just hasn’t been a right time for that conversation,” Darren says. “I haven’t been home since before Valentine’s Day, and I didn’t want to have some lame phone chat.”  
  
“I don’t know why I’m so angry,” Chris says. “Everything you’re saying is reasonable. And it’s not like we’re even…”  
  
He stops, but Darren hears the word anyway:  _boyfriends_.  
  
“Chris,” Darren says, and his voice wavers.  
  
Chris turns to look at Darren, and he is crying, fuck. Darren wants to die.  
  
“What are you thinking about right now?” Chris asks.  
  
“I want to kiss you,” Darren blurts out, and it’s the truth – it’s always there, in the back of his mind, a constant hum, the desire to touch his mouth to Chris’s.  
  
“I told my parents,” Chris says. “The day after Valentine’s Day, I told them.”  
  
“What did you tell them?” Darren says.  
  
Chris curls his fingers into a fist, then opens them, a flower blooming.  
  
“That you were the real thing,” Chris says.  
  
*  
  
It’s quiet back at the hotel. Chris goes into the bathroom to shower and change into his pajamas. Darren flicks on the TV and settles on a rerun of  _Law & Order_, then texts Lea.  
  
 _what do you do when chris is upset?_  
  
He doesn’t receive a reply - instead his phone vibrates in his hand a minute later.  
  
“What have you done, Darren?” Lea asks, her voice a warning.  
  
“I didn’t - I mean—”  
  
“Seriously. What did you do.”  
  
Darren glances at the closed bathroom door. He thinks of how he imagined this night in his mind, and realizes he never really knew where it would go. He just thought:  _closer_. That’s all he wanted, all he wants.  
  
“My family doesn’t know,” Darren says.  
  
He can hear Lea shuffling around in the background. “Wow. Are they those kind of Catholics?”  
  
Lea gives him entirely too much credit. “No, not at all. But I - I don’t know, I wanted to tell them in person. I mean, I get that it’s a big deal for Chris too, but for me—”  
  
“You have to admit to being less of a Kinsey zero,” Lea says.  
  
Darren wants to bang his head on something hard. He certainly deserves it.  
  
“You know, I like you,” Lea says. “You’re sweet and you’ve got excellent taste in eyewear, but if you mess with Chris’s head or any of his other body parts, I will have to end you.”  
  
Darren swallows. The bathroom door creaks open, and he whispers, “I have to go.”  
  
“My advice to you is this,” Lea says. “Be honest. Chris can handle it.”  
  
Chris emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wearing plaid pajama pants and a white undershirt. His hair is damp and sticking up in ten different places, and God, Darren really wants to cuddle.  
  
“If all else fails,” Lea continues, “blow jobs help.”  
  
Darren clicks off the phone and drops it onto the bed.  
  
“Who was that?” Chris asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  
  
“Oh, just Lea,” Darren says. His voice sounds awkward, higher than usual.  
  
Chris sits down on the edge of the bed. “Should I - there’s a couch in the living room, I can—”  
  
“Are you mental?” Darren asks. “No way. I mean - not unless you really don’t want to be here with me, because I really want you here.”  
  
Chris’s mouth curves up at one corner. “Okay.”  
  
“Okay,” Darren says.  
  
He traces his fingers over the back of Chris’s hand, and Chris doesn’t pull away.  
  
It feels like progress.  
  
*  
  
Darren wakes at his usual time, 6:30 am, despite the late night, body on autopilot. He’s tempted to wake Chris, but he looks so peaceful, tucked under a mountain of blankets and breathing through his mouth.  
  
Instead Darren slips on some jeans and a worn grey hoodie and goes out. The air is chilly this early, and he can see fog still misting over the hills, burning off as the sun rises. He goes into Lava Java, where a sleepy cashier takes his order and stuffs two croissants into a small parchment paper bag that will surely squish them.  
  
Nothing is open this early in the Haight but the coffee shops, so Darren huddles in one corner with his latte and puts in his earphones. He listens to four Weepies songs in a row. There’s only one other guy in the café, an old man wearing a leather jacket and huge black-rimmed glasses, and when their eyes meet the man salutes him with a twist of his wrist. Darren smiles into his coffee. This is San Francisco: a city of people being alone, together.  
  
He buys Chris’s coffee before he leaves, and by that time the place has started to do a brisk business. The cashier’s espresso has kicked in, evidently, and this time when Darren orders a vanilla latte, he goes, “Dude.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Are you—“ the guy stops, pushes a strand of greasy dark hair out of his eyes, and then shrugs. “Nevermind.”  
  
“Enjoy your day!” Darren calls out as he leaves, thinking,  _Almost, almost, not quite_.  
  
Chris is still asleep when Darren returns. He’s stretched out almost horizontally on the bed, one arm flung out to the side. Darren sits on the edge of the bed and bounces a little, experimentally.  
  
“Mmmph,” Chris says, and squeezes his eyes shut more tightly.  
  
“Good morning, sunshine,” Darren sing-songs, and slides his hand under Chris’s t-shirt.  
  
Chris twitches, his eyes snapping open. “You asshole. Your hands are  _freezing_.”  
  
“I brought you coffee,” Darren announces. “Because I’m awesome.”  
  
Chris rubs at his eyes, then blinks to clear them. Darren thinks:  _Glasz_. He remembers when Chris taught him that word – they were in a diner at 4 am, drinking coffee to sober up because they had a 6 am call. Chris was still loopy on margaritas and kept trailing off in the middle of his sentences, and at one point he started speaking French, which made Darren want to do him so hard.  
  
 _You have the prettiest eyes_ , he told Chris sleepily, and Chris said,  _Glasz_ , like it was supposed to make sense, and then:  _Blue, green and grey. It’s called glasz._  
  
“Let you put your hands on me in my skintight jeans…” Darren hums and Chris rolls over and groans into the pillow.  
  
“Oh, hey, this works,” Darren says, and hops up on the bed and straddles Chris’s hips.  
  
“Why,” Chris states, and Darren leans over and presses a kiss between his shoulder blades in answer. Chris has freckles there. Darren wants to map them with his tongue, trace paths through and over them until Chris is shaking.  
  
Chris exhales through his teeth. Darren presses his palm to the small of Chris’s back, curling his fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pushing it up. There are a lot of things he and Chris haven’t done – some Darren doesn’t even know how to do, fuck – but Darren’s biggest regret is that their schedules don’t often allow for a lot of leisurely making out, kissing and touching and just enjoying each other with no destination in mind.  
  
“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Criss,” Chris says, his voice muffled in the sheets.  
  
It sounds like a challenge. Darren sits up and skims his hands over Chris’s hips.  
  
“Flip over,” he says.  
  
Chris hesitates for a few seconds before turning over. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a mess.  
  
“I want to – God,” Darren breathes, and Chris’s flush deepens.  
  
“What?” Chris whispers. His eyelashes are so long. Darren notices the weirdest shit.  
  
“It’s just—“ Darren stops and sits back on his heels. “Fuck.”  
  
“Please don’t stop in the middle,” Chris says. “You’re making me so anxious.”  
  
Darren takes in a deep breath. “I want to do – like, everything with you. And I never wanted to do this stuff with a guy before and sometimes it kind of freaks me out.”  
  
Chris lowers his eyes and his mouth thins.  
  
“I don’t mean – I don’t regret anything we’ve done. And I still want to do all of that stuff with you, but just because I’ve made out with a few dudes doesn’t mean I know what the hell I’m doing.”  
  
“Well, you’re looking at the world’s biggest gay virgin right here,” Chris says, “so it’s not like I have a lot of compare it to.”  
  
Darren snorts. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”  
  
“No problem.”  
  
Even when they’re navigating uncomfortable territory, Darren is still so comfortable with Chris. It’s hard to argue with how easy it is.  
  
Darren reaches out and pushes hair off Chris’s forehead.  
  
“You’re so beautiful,” Darren murmurs. “I don’t want to screw this up.”  
  
“I don’t want to be your experiment,” Chris says, too fast, the words running together.  
  
Darren feels sick. He remembers:  _I just don’t need pity makeouts. Even on Valentine’s Day.  
  
I am such an idiot,_ he thinks.  
  
“This is the real thing,” he says.  
  
Chris looks at him, and for a rare moment, he’s completely unreadable.  
  
Then he tilts his head to the side and kisses the inside of Darren’s wrist.  
  
“I’m just needy and incompetent, okay?” Darren murmurs, and ain’t that the truth.  
  
Chris laughs, and Darren takes the opportunity to capture his mouth in a kiss. It quickly becomes dirty, all tongue and gasping. Chris bites Darren’s lower lip and then licks across it, and Darren thinks  _oh holy shit yes_ , and also that Chris is an awfully quick study. Then again, Chris is the type of guy who doesn’t do anything he doesn’t do well.  
  
“You know, I like you a lot,” Chris breathes against Darren’s mouth, “but if we don’t move beyond kissing and dry humping I might actually lose my mind.”  
  
Despite Lea’s generous offer to show him a few things, Darren has been cautious with Chris. He’s not sure if that was for the sake of Chris’s sanity or for his own.  
  
Darren doesn’t like doing things he’s not good at either, though he does have abundant experience with looking like an ass.  
  
“What if I want to see you lose your mind?” Darren asks, and slides his hand into Chris’s soft cotton pajama pants.  
  
Chris’s eyes flutter shut, and his hand fists in the sheets. “Oh my...”  
  
This is strange, no question. Everything is backwards, and Chris is so warm and…hard. Darren swallows and slides his hand up and down, feeling Chris shudder.  _Oh. Oh. Okay_. As is almost always the case, sexy things are infinitely improved by having company.  
  
Darren uses some of Chris’s lotion, which makes everything smell like marigolds. Chris arches into his hand and bites his lip and writhes on the bed, and Darren is so  _hot_  all of a sudden. He thinks of high school and secret handjobs in the back seat of his parents’ Prius, and how it’s kind of nice to still have firsts, to remember that the world is filled with so many things he hasn’t done yet.  
  
“Are you—“ Chris moans, and Darren kisses him, wet and messy, feels him pulse beneath his hand.  
  
*  
  
“There is one of these in L.A.,” Chris observes. “Not everything about San Francisco is better, Darren.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” Darren says. “You were speaking at a frequency not intended for my superior San Francisco hearing.”  
  
Chris rolls his eyes and thumbs through a rack of CDs. Amoeba bustles with its constant customer traffic, the speakers spilling out electronica while two guys in Vans and skinny jeans shout across the aisle, something about whether Andrew Jackson Jihad would be in punk or indie.  
  
“So what’s on the agenda?” Chris asks.  
  
Darren reads the tracklisting on the back of the new Madlib album. “I thought we’d go to my high school,” he mumbles. “I mean, if that’s okay?”  
  
Chris is looking at him with a quizzical expression. “Sure, that’s fine.”  
  
“The show’s in the evening,” Darren says, “but we have basically the whole day for whatever.”  
  
“Whatever, eh?” Chris says, raising his eyebrows, and his smirk makes Darren really sad he reverted to his own hand in the shower instead of letting Chris reciprocate when he offered.  
  
*  
  
“This is not a school,” Chris says. “It’s an oceanfront estate.”  
  
Saint Ignatius is all arches inside rectangles, peaches and browns: part Harry Potter, part California, perched above the Pacific, a visual representation of the endless possibility the school always promoted.  
  
“It is pretty nice,” Darren admits.  
  
“It’s  _gorgeous_ ,” Chris says. “How did you ever get any work done?”  
  
Darren shrugs. “You get used to it.”  
  
“I would never get used to this,” Chris says, holding his hand above the wall that bears the school’s crest, SI above a sun. The wall is slick with water, a fountain they never turn off.  
  
 _Isn’t this the definition of privilege?_  Darren thinks.  _To not even be conscious of the things that make you lucky?_  
  
“So is Saint Ignatius your average Catholic prep school?” Chris says as they walk to the theater entrance. “All – navy blue and rules?”  
  
“Not quite, no,” Darren says. “It’s Jesuit, so it’s pretty intense academically. Competitive.”  
  
“So you’re saying you were a smarty-pants,” Chris says.  
  
“Why the past tense?” Darren says, indignant. “Also, we didn’t wear uniforms.”  
  
“That’s sort of disappointing.” Chris frowns.  
  
“Does the uniform do it for you?” Darren asks. “Because I wore one in middle school and I can probably dig that shit up from my closet somewhere—“  
  
Chris’s laugh is bright. He curls his hands in the lapels of Darren’s peacoat. Another reason San Francisco is all right – the cold bite of the wind invites layers, gives Chris something to hold onto. Darren wants him to hold on and keep holding on.  
  
“ _You_  do it for me,” Chris murmurs, and his eyes are so soft and sweet, Darren wants to kiss his fingers, just the tips that peek out of his fingerless gloves. He thinks  _what the hell_ , and does it just to see the way Chris’s expression shifts. The blush in his cheeks makes Darren think of sunsets. He wants to write a song.  
  
*  
  
The theater still smells like Darren remembers, floor polish and sweat and Febreze. He steps inside the doors and memories crawl all over him like over-excited little kids. He can see his friend Kelly in the corner, sewing up a rip in the seam of his pants while lecturing him,  _Don’t do that anymore, there is no need to climb on the furniture_. He can hear the director shouting, the rustle of fabric, the smell of grease and pepperoni from late night rehearsal pizza runs. Running lines, running scenes, running gags, running jokes.  
  
 _What does this mean, to be here now?_  Darren wonders. He aches, a little. He doesn’t know what he wants, what exactly he misses.  
  
“Oh my God, I thought that security guard was never going to leave me alone,” Chris says, pushing inside and flicking his scarf over one shoulder. “I mean, I get that I’m not a student here but—”  
  
He stops. Darren turns toward him and Chris puts one hand on his arm.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“M’good,” Darren says.  
  
He can see Chris formulating questions, but then there’s a swish of fabric, the curtains part, and a tall, thin man wearing abundant cologne descends upon them.  
  
“Darren, Darren, Darren,” the man says, and envelops him in a hug.  
  
“What’s up, Mr. Antoine,” Darren says, his voice trailing off into a laugh.  
  
Mr. Antoine pulls back and examines hm with warm brown eyes. His hair is teased up into peaks and a small diamond twinkles in one of his ears.  
  
“You did grow up so handsome,” he says. “Is it inappropriate for me to say that?”  
  
Chris coughs behind them, and Darren feels himself blush.  
  
Mr. Antoine peers around him, and his hand tightens on Darren’s arm.  
  
“Oh my lord,” Mr. Antoine says. “It’s  _you_.”  
  
“It’s me!” Chris says. “Hi. I’m Chris.”  
  
“Honey, I know who you are,” Mr. Antoine says, and before Darren can do anything to stop him, Mr. Antoine has let him go and pulled Chris into a hug. Chris looks overwhelmed and awkward, but he doesn’t resist.  
  
“You are so gorgeous,” Mr. Antoine gushes. “That skin! Is that natural?”  
  
Chris looks at a loss, and Darren reaches out and tugs Mr. Antoine back, saying, “Yes, he really is as pretty as he looks on TV.”  
  
“I was so happy when you won,” Mr. Antoine continues. “There was such a to-do at my house – hasn’t been that much screaming since my boy Yigit won  _Top Chef_.”  
  
“Glad to be…of service?” Chris mumbles, and Darren wraps his hand around Chris’s wrist without thinking, anchoring him.  
  
Mr. Antoine glances from their joined hands to Darren’s face and lifts an eyebrow, but Darren just rolls his eyes.  
  
“I’ll stop embarrassing you,” Mr. Antoine says. “Come on, I’ll show you the place where Darren learned everything he knows.”  
  
*  
  
“Well, he was friendly,” Chris says over burritos.  
  
Darren is in heaven. Not that LA lacks good Mexican food, but nothing beats an SF burrito. Nothing.  
  
“I’m sorry he was so…excited,” Darren says. “He basically threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t come see him while I was here, so—“  
  
“No, it’s fine,” Chris say, smiling. He’s eating his burrito with a knife and fork. It’s so adorably misguided. “He was a lot of fun. I could see how it would be great to have teachers like that.”  
  
Chris’s face falls, and Darren reaches out without thinking, tracing his jaw with one finger.  
  
“What’s wrong?” he asks.  
  
Chris sighs. “This is going to sound so dumb.”  
  
Darren brushes a finger over Chris’s lower lip, and Chris shoots him an annoyed look. Sometimes it’s hard for Darren to look and not touch! He retracts his hand.  
  
“I keep thinking about how different we are,” Chris says. “Like…the way you grew up. And the way you fit in here, when I don’t. It’s so easy for you.”  
  
“Why don’t you fit in here?” Darren says. “Everybody fits in here.”  
  
Chris’s mouth turns downwards, but he stays silent.  
  
“We should probably go to the show,” Darren murmurs.  
  
*  
  
Darren buys them drinks at the venue and sips his by the bar while Chris texts on his iPhone. He entertains himself by examining the elaborate gilded walls and ceiling, remnants of the club’s bordello past. San Francisco has always been like this, he realizes. A city of people passing through.  
  
“Dude,” Chuck says, bounding up and punching Darren in the arm. He proceeds to tell an elaborate story involving some girl Kevin met yesterday at the beach who had edibles and gave them samples, which somehow led to Kevin getting naked and running into the ocean. Given the average temperature of the Pacific, this was highly ill-advised, despite yielding hilarious results.  
  
“That’s awesome,” Darren says, distracted by the hunch of Chris’s shoulders. He looks like he’s trying to disappear.  
  
“Relax,” Chuck says, noticing and squeezing his arm. “You need to ease up on him. You’d think you guys were fucking.”  
  
Darren tenses, grateful that Chris is far enough away that the loud music blocks out what Chuck is saying.  
  
Chuck’s laughing, until he realizes Darren’s not.  
  
“Wait,” Chuck says. “Wait.”  
  
Darren rubs at his temples.  
  
“That was a joke, Darren,” Chuck says. “You guys are—”  
  
“We’re not fucking,” Darren says. “I mean – not actually—”  
  
“Are you kidding me?” Chuck says. “Why didn’t you say anything?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Darren says miserably.  
  
“Riordan is going to be pissed,” Chuck says. “He’s been trying to turn you for years.”  
  
“Nobody turned me,” Darren says. “It’s not—”  
  
Chuck’s grin slips from his face, and his arm tightens on Darren’s arm.  
  
“Holy shit,” Chuck says. “It’s serious.”  
  
Chris approaches then and says, “I’m going to go outside for a minute. Chuck, your band’s coming on soon?”  
  
If Chuck is a little shaky on reply, Chris doesn’t seem to notice. “A half hour, maybe?”  
  
“Cool,” Chris says, and disappears into the crowd.  
  
“Well,” Chuck says. “You never did do anything halfway.”  
  
*  
  
“Take this,” Chuck says a few minutes later, stuffing a plastic bag into his coat pocket before he goes onstage. Darren’s terrified that there might be condoms or sex toys in there or something - but no.  
  
Darren stares at the brownies, caught somewhere between being shocked and being touched.  
  
“What’s that?” Chris asks, and Darren holds out the bag.  
  
Chris arches an eyebrow, looking like a disapproving school teacher.  
  
“Those aren’t just dessert, are they,” Chris says.  
  
Darren shakes his head.  
  
“Okay,” Chris says, and Darren is half-expecting a lecture when Chris holds out his hand.  
  
Darren swallows his surprise with his half of the brownie, and when Chris reaches for him, he slides his hand into Chris’s and holds on.  
  
The concert is great. The band sounds amazing, trippy and yet somehow coherent and fluid. Darren never gets tired of watching his brother up there. He’s so happy. Darren remembers when they used to play together, he the little brother banging on the drums and making noise, trying to keep up. Chuck’s always made Darren want to make music, just to be a part of the magic.  
  
About an hour in, the weed hits. Darren can tell the moment it happens to Chris because his movements get slower and more deliberate, like he’s trying to think out each one before he does it.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Darren asks, pulling Chris close so he can hear him over the music.  
  
“Pretty good, actually,” Chris says. “Is the room kind of – glowy right now?”  
  
Darren can feel every one of Chris’s fingertips as it presses into his arm. He blinks. Someone is saying something, but Darren can’t focus.  
  
“I want to make out with you,” Darren says, and Chris leans back against him, reaching around to clasp Darren’s hip.  
  
“Make out with me,” Chris says slowly. “Is that really what you want to do?”  
  
Freelance Whales finished playing ten minutes ago, and Darren likes the Foals – but not enough to stay.  
  
“Let’s go,” Darren whispers, and strokes Chris’s neck with his thumb, firm along his throat.  
  
  
*  
  
There is no teasing. Chris walks into the bedroom and pulls his sweater and his shirt over his head in one motion. His skin is pale and smooth, and his back curves like a wave. He pushes his jeans off his hips and to the floor, kicking them to the side, and climbs onto the bed. He doesn’t even meet Darren’s eyes until he’s pressed against the wall of white pillows.  
  
Everything about Chris is so creamy and perfect. Darren’s almost afraid to touch him and leave him bruised.  
  
“Are you just going to stare at me?” Chris says.  
  
There’s an edge to Chris’s voice, and Darren thinks,  _He’s still pissed_. It’s kind of hot. Chris’s eyes flash and he lifts his chin, and oh, oh, he’s definitely challenging him now. Darren loves when Chris is like this – a little ragged at the edges, the gloves off, no more need to be polite.  
  
Darren doesn’t say anything, just climbs onto the bed next to him, but when he reaches for him, Chris pushes him onto his back, pinning him there.  
  
“I want to know how much you want this,” Chris says.  
  
Darren twitches, curling one hand into a fist. “I—”  
  
“I don’t want to hear how this is real, or that you care about me, or any of those things scared straight boys say because they’re too nice to hurt someone to their face,” Chris says. “Just say it.”  
  
Darren sucks in a breath. Chris lets go of his wrists. Darren skims one of his hands up Chris’s hip, tracing the curve of bone visible above his boxers.  
  
“I want you,” Darren murmurs. “So much, Chris, I – I watch you sometimes on set and all I want to do is push you into the nearest wall and kiss you until you can’t breathe anymore. I want to touch you everywhere. I want to make you beg—”  
  
Chris’s voice is shaky when he says, “Why won’t you just  _do_  it then—”  
  
Darren’s fingers clasp Chris’s hip, cutting him off mid-sentence with a sloppy kiss, wet and open-mouthed. His head feels light and his hands seem bigger than normal, but everywhere he touches Chris he’s warm and naked,  _oh God oh God oh God._  
  
He props himself up over Chris. His tongue dances over Chris’s collarbone, his chest and down to his belly button. Darren licks lower, tongue dipping under the waistband of his boxers, and Chris’s breathing stutters. He smells amazing, this mixture of lotion and sweat and cigarettes, probably from standing outside the club, or maybe he actually smoked when he went outside, and  _why does Darren find that so hot._  
  
Chris’s hands find Darren’s curly hair and thread through it. Darren breathes him in before licking over the fly of his boxers, getting the fabric damp. Chris’s breath hitches, an almost-gasp. Darren can feel him hardening through his underwear, and when Darren pulls down his boxers and licks across the head of his cock, Chris swears loudly.  
  
“Oh, okay,” Darren says, unable to contain his amusement. “That’s how to get you to say those words.”  
  
“Shut up,” Chris says, his voice weak. His eyes are dark and he’s looking at Darren like he wants to consume him.  
  
Darren makes a decision.  
  
He holds Chris’s hips still with one hand and closes his mouth over his cock, sucking. He thinks about what he likes, the combination of pressure and wet, and then he stops thinking and listens, hears the way Chris’s breathing turns into gasps and sighs and moans, his hand curling in Darren’s hair but not pulling, just there.  
  
“Oh fuck,” Chris exhales, “Darren, I’m going to—”  
  
Darren is not excited about swallowing, exactly, but he remembers how sexy he found it when girls did it for him. He doesn’t let Chris push him away, instead sucking harder, using his hand to reach what he can’t, swirling his tongue until Chris groans and comes, straining against Darren’s hold. The sounds he makes are ones Darren’s never heard before, low and wrecked, uncontrolled.  
  
Darren wipes his hand across his mouth and sits up, and Chris reaches out and pulls him so he’s beside him. His eyes flutter closed. He’s breathing heavily, his cheeks rosy.  
  
“You’re still wearing clothes,” Chris manages. “ _Why_.”  
  
Darren laughs. “I was busy.”  
  
Chris opens his eyes and turns onto his side, reaching for Darren’s belt. “Have you ever done that before?”  
  
Darren shakes his head.  
  
“You’re good at it,” Chris says, and Darren wants to giggle. He almost expects Chris to put a gold star on his forehead.  
  
He’s so caught up in the grey-blue of Chris’s eyes that he jumps when Chris wraps his hand around Darren’s cock and says, “I promise I’ll do that for you, but I am way too high to manage right now.”  
  
Chris’s voice is honey, sated and slow, and he talks while he’s jerking Darren off, eyes never leaving Darren’s.  
  
“You feel so amazing,” Chris says. “I keep thinking – it just seems too good to be true, that you could want this the way I want this—”  
  
“I want this,” Darren gasps as Chris’s thumb slips over the head of his cock.  
  
Chris leans in and whispers in his ear as he pulls Darren closer and closer to orgasm, “I would let you do anything to me.”  
  
Darren groans.  
  
*  
  
The next morning they sleep in. Darren wakes up hazy, but he’s not sure if it’s the lasting effects of the weed or just the fact that Chris is lying beside him, one hand spread on Darren’s chest, holding on.  
  
He kisses Chris’s temple. They have to drive back to L.A. today. Darren loves his life there, but he doesn’t want to go back. He wants to keep Chris in this bed forever, to see the sun cut stripes across his shoulders, to touch him under the blankets and watch his eyelids flutter.  
  
As if on cue, his phone buzzes on the bedside table. He reaches for it and reads the text from Lea:  
  
 _r u bringing chris back or r u stealing him forever?_  
  
Darren smirks and texts back,  _give me 1 good reason i should return him_  
  
There’s a pause of about thirty seconds, and then his phone buzzes again.  
  
 _i still haven’t seen u 2 make out & i think u owe me_  
  
Darren laughs so hard he wakes up Chris, who reaches across and presses his hand over Darren’s mouth to shut him up. Darren bites his palm, and Chris sighs the sigh of the world-weary.  
  
“We need to get up,” Darren says. “There’s brunch in our future.”  
  
Chris’s hair is a mess. He cracks one eye open and says, “You are annoyingly awake in the morning.”  
  
“It’s almost noon,” Darren observes. “I had important text messages.”  
  
“Mmm,” Chris says, and closes one hand around air. “Coffee, where is it.”  
  
“Get your ass out of bed and we’ll get you some,” Darren says.  
  
“Oh, I see how it is, now that you’ve sucked my dick you don’t bring me coffee anymore,” Chris mumbles, and Darren rolls over and kisses Chris’s neck, licking over his collarbone, muffling his laughter in his shoulder.  
  
“I get it,” Chris continues. “This is the part of the relationship where you stop trying to impress me, and I get fat, and soon we won’t go out anymore, and—”  
  
“I want to buy you some eggs,” Darren says. “Can I buy you some eggs? And, like, a muffin?”  
  
Chris’s smile is wide. “I can buy you brunch,” he says. “I make more money than you, you know.”  
  
“Thanks for reminding me,” Darren says.  
  
“Sure thing,” Chris says. He cocks his head to one side and pushes one of Darren’s disobedient curls out of his eyes. “You’re kind of incredible.”  
  
Darren’s phone buzzes again. He kisses Chris’s nose, then the corner of his mouth. “Right back at ya, handsome.”  
  
Chris rolls his eyes, and Darren lifts his phone to check his messages.  
  
 _so u and chris should have babies_ , Chuck writes,  _and name them bambi and alabaster_  
  
Darren laughs, and shows Chris his phone. Chris’s eyes widen.  
  
“So now he knows,” Chris says.  
  
“Yeah,” Darren says. “I’m sure my parents will know soon enough.”  
  
“Are you okay with that?” Chris asks, and there’s no current in his voice, just curiosity.  
  
“Yes,” Darren says.  
  
Chris thumbs over Darren’s jawline where he’s growing stubble.  
  
“Thank you,” Chris says, “for showing me your world.”  
  
Darren turns to kiss Chris’s hand. When their eyes meet, Chris is biting his lip, questions in his eyes.  
  
“Not my world,” Darren whispers. “Ours.”


End file.
